Page 81 of Run to Me

“No. I almost fell off the roof when I saved your Barbie doll after Logan threw it up there.”

She rolls her eyes and continues turning the pages. “‘Saved’ is a bit of an exaggeration.”

“You got it back, didn’t you? I was a damn hero that day.”

Still flipping, she doubles back when a flash of red on one page catches her eye. “Why are you covered in blood? And why the hell am I dressed like Catwoman?”

“It’s not blood. Remember the outfit you made me wear to the homecoming dance my senior year?”

Maisy insisted my date would prefer me in a color other than black, so she raided Logan’s closet and forced me into a red shirt and matching pants. We laughed at how ridiculous I looked and laughed even harder when Logan realized I was wearing his clothes.

“Logan was furious. He didn’t like anyone touching his things,” she says, smiling at the memory.

I packed the pages of the notebook with as many of our playful moments as I could. Unfortunately, I didn’t finish drawing a full picture of our future. But I’m not complaining. She’s here now, which is all that matters.

“What are these?” She points to the stick figures standing outside a brick house—the house where we’re currently enjoying breakfast together.

“Our kids.”

With her lips pressed in a tight line, she scans the page, taking in all the other hand-drawn details. The crooked house, the weird-looking dog, the garden of wild rose bushes.

”You don’t want kids.” It’s not a question, but an observation based on her shuttered facial expression and the stiffness in her hunched shoulders.

My stomach suddenly feels like an empty cavern despite the cereal I’ve eaten. I rest my spoon in my bowl and plant my elbows on the counter, hands folded and pressed to my mouth to keep from saying the wrong thing. To keep from saying anything at all.

Tension sits heavily between us as I consider her reaction to the imaginary kids. I assumed by the way she cared for her dolls when she was younger, treating them with love and tenderness, that she dreamed of having her own children one day. That, perhaps, her delicate handling of them was her way of pretending to be the mother she didn’t have. Apparently, I assumed wrong.

She casts me an uneasy glance and asks, “If I don’t, does that change anything for you? For us?”

I want a family—of course I do—and raising that family with her would be a dream come true. More than anything else, however, I just want her. While I find the thought of not having kids of my own someday disheartening, the notion of a future without Maisy is a thousand times more painful. It’s unacceptable.

“No. It changes nothing,” I say, my tone gentle and reassuring.

“You’ll tell me if it does? You’d be a great dad, and I’ll never ask you to settle for less than the future you want.”

Turning on my stool to face her, I skim my knuckles along her cheek, reassuring her further with my touch. “The only future I’ve ever envisioned is one with you in it.”

“If you’re sure. Honestly, I’ve never given much thought to having kids, so who knows if I’ll still feel this way in a few years. I could change my mind. But I don’t ever want to take anything away from you, J, and if I can’t give you what you want or need, I’ll understand if you⁠—”

I lean forward and cut off her nervous rambling with a firm kiss to her lips. “I’m sure, birdie.”

Her shoulders relax, and her mouth twitches as she attempts to lighten the mood. She points to a different drawing on the page and says, “I could totally get behind this Komodo dragon.”

“That’s a dog,” I deadpan. She grimaces, and my stomach dips yet again. “You don’t like dogs?”

Mirth shines in her hazel eyes when they meet mine. I swear her twisted sense of humor will be the death of me. “I love dogs,” she says.

“Four-legged kids it is then.”

“We’re talking an awful lot about the future after just one night. We’re supposed to be exploring this.”

Shaking my head, I say, “There’s nothing to explore. We both said we’re all in. But we can put this notebook on a shelf and take things one day at a time.”

When she sighs again, the sound of her relief both hurts and heals. It hurts because I want to fast-track our future, secured by her solemn vow to stay at my side. It heals because she’s not racing out the door to get as far away from me as she can. Maisy knows I’m an intense man, and I’ll have to work on balancing my level of intensity with her need to remain cautious and move slowly.

“Thank you,” she says while scooping a spoonful of cereal. “I will say that if you plan on keeping me around, you’ll need to buy some groceries.”

“Make a list—whatever you want. But fair warning, I can’t cook anything from scratch.”